


Cold Feet

by Luthien



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bystander POV, F/M, Humor, Jossed, Romance, Wedding, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-27 01:15:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1709633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthien/pseuds/Luthien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Belle has cold feet, literally and possibly figuratively as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Feet

**Author's Note:**

> I've been writing this story since April. It was always set a little way into the future, but then the final three episodes of Season 3 happened. Because of that, it's AU after 3x19. This is a VERY different wedding from the canon one.
> 
> The story includes a couple of lines of dialogue from episode 2x17. Obviously, those words aren’t mine.
> 
> Thanks to Nym and Telanu for beta-ing and cheerleading along the way.

Belle has cold feet.

Rumpelstiltskin discovered this the very first night they spent together, the first night that she was alive again. The first night that he held her in his arms, and she held him just as tightly.

He was nervous, climbing into bed with her that first night, nervous in what little space was left between wonder that she was here at all and unsurprised regret that he’d already disappointed her. Her lips found his across the pillow, her hands slid up under his pyjama top seeking bare skin – and then her feet tangled with his.

He broke the kiss.

"What’s wrong?" Belle asked quickly.

"Nothing," Rumpelstiltskin replied. "Just… Your feet are cold."

"Oh, I’m sorry!" Belle exclaimed. "I didn’t think. My feet, they, uh… I’m used to being cold."

She said it so matter-of-factly, so apologetically, as if _she_ were at fault for thirty years of imprisonment in cold, damp cells, all the time clothed in rags that never kept her warm. Rumpelstiltskin’s hands clenched into fists, and it took several long, deep breaths before he trusted himself to speak again.

"That’s easily fixed," he told her gently, and sat up so that he could pull back the covers. He crawled partway down the bed and turned to face her. He felt around in the dark, finding the shape of her, the soft roundness of her hip and the slender lengths of her legs, the smooth curve behind her knee. His hands moved down her body in long, unhurried strokes until at last he reached her feet and pulled them into his lap. He took each one of them in his hands in turn, chafing the warmth back into them, then leaning down to leave a soft, tickly kiss on her instep that made Belle giggle – until the kiss went from playful to serious, and her giggles caught on a gasp.

He took his time kissing his way back up her body. By the time his lips at last found hers again neither of them was nervous any more, and not a single inch of her remained cold.

The next night Belle’s feet were cold again, like two blocks of ice against his shins when they spooned together in bed. He made a rather undignified noise as he jerked away from her beneath the covers – and then spent what seemed like several minutes apologising profusely. He took her feet in his hands again and warmed them as he had the night before, with caresses chased by kisses, his breath hot along her sole.

The night after that, he was ready for her. He reached for her feet almost as soon as she got into bed, before they could brush against him.

Belle always has cold feet. Rumpelstiltskin has become used to it. It’s an expected thing, a given, as much a part of Belle as her blue eyes, or her unwavering belief in the better nature of a man who’d forgotten he ever had one.

Belle always has cold feet, and Rumpelstitlskin always warms them. Or, at least, he did until three nights ago, the last night she spent in his home. The next day she’d gone to stay at Granny’s – to prepare, Belle said. She needed the space that she could only find there, since his house was out of the question.

He hasn’t seen her since, apart from when they met for dinner the first two nights, and he hasn’t heard from her, except for phone calls every few hours. And text messages, which are even worse. They’re impersonal and severely lacking, just words, with no body language to read and find out what’s really going on. Rumpelstiltskin never thought he’d miss magic mirrors after he left the Enchanted Forest, but he misses them now.

Instead, he’s had to rely on phone calls. _Phone calls_. And texts. The last was yesterday evening. He presumes Belle was still at Granny’s then, though there’s no real way of knowing. She could be anywhere by now.

He misses her, all of her. Even her cold feet. Especially her cold feet, stroking them and kissing them, and everything that comes after that.

Maybe her cold feet are more than just the literal sort this time. Maybe it was too much to ask of her. He wouldn’t blame her, if she didn’t show up today, but he glances over his shoulder again, hoping against hope that she’ll be standing in the doorway, smiling at him.

She’s not there.

Instead, he sees row after row of expectant faces, all the people _he’d_ never choose to invite to a wedding, and yet they’re here because the whole point of a wedding is that it’s about the wishes of two together rather than just one alone. (Though that still doesn’t explain the presence of Hook in the front row, grinning a nasty grin the instant he spies Rumpelstiltskin’s worried glance.)

_If_ there’s going to be a wedding.

He glances at his watch. Again. It doesn’t lie, can’t lie. There’s no disputing that she’s late, Belle is late. Or worse than late.

Maybe she really does have cold feet.

~*~

David reaches for the hilt of his sword, only remembering at the very last minute that he doesn’t wear a sword in Storybrooke and brushing some imaginary lint off the bottom of his coat instead. He misses his sword, the comforting weight of it hanging at his side just as much as the handy visual threat it provides, but right now he’d settle for his gun. He just needs something to point at Gold and _make_ him calm down. But he doesn’t have his gun either. There isn’t supposed to be a need for weapons at a wedding, at least not in Storybrooke. David has to make do with clenching his fists at his sides and resisting the temptation to punch Gold in the shoulder and tell him to relax. Instead, he watches as Gold, the groom – and that’s still a thought that David has trouble wrapping his head around, despite the fact that he’s standing right here next to him, waiting for the bride – glances at his watch and then over his shoulder at the church door and then back at his watch again. He’s been performing that little manoeuvre every fifteen seconds or so for the past five minutes. Every time Gold does it, the tense knot in David’s shoulders grows that little bit tighter.

Gold leaves off looking at his watch for a moment and laces his fingers together, just for variety, clenching hard until the knuckles show white. He pulls his hands apart, as if with great effort, and reaches up to pull at his tie. It’s not the first time he’s done that, and the perfectly knotted tie, usually one of the defining features of Mr Gold’s “look”, is now looking much the worse for wear.

David knows that Gold prefers not to be called Gold these days, that it’s a side of himself that he doesn’t care to be reminded of, for reasons that David can make a fairly good guess at. But David can’t help but think of him as Gold because, well, he _looks_ more like Gold right now, in the sharp suit and silk tie, even though the tails of his grey cutaway coat are all Rumpelstiltskin in style. And besides, the only other times David has ever seen Gold _or_ Rumpelstiltskin act anything like as nervous, uncertain and, not to put too fine a point on it, _panic-stricken_ as he is right now were when he was right here in Storybrooke. Then, like now, it was all about Belle. And then, like now, Belle was the only solution.

David looks at his own watch, but he manages to stop himself before glancing over his shoulder as well. He hopes to god the bride isn’t fashionably late. He doesn’t think the groom will last much longer if she doesn’t get here soon. Hell, _he_ won’t last much longer if she doesn’t get here soon, what with worrying about what Gold – worse, _Rumpelstiltskin_ \- might do if he snaps in front of half of Storybrooke.

"She’s not coming," Gold mutters to him harshly. His voice is so low and gravelly that it sounds almost sinister, almost threatening, but his eyes are wild.

"What are you talking about?" David whispers back. "Of course she’s coming."

"No, she isn’t. She’s already late. She’s not coming," Gold insists, tugging at his tie again.

"She’s sixty seconds late! One minute!" David hisses, a little too loudly. He glances over at the front row and Emma immediately catches his eye, her eyebrow raised in a question.

_Don’t worry_ , he mouths, shaking his head to show he’s got everything under control.

He turns back to Gold: now he just has to actually _get_ everything under control. Gold is still looking wild-eyed, and he’s cracking his knuckles again. This really isn’t a conversation that David wants to have out here, with dozens of people within earshot, so he grabs Gold by the arm and drags him into the vestry. It says something about Gold’s current state of mind that he doesn’t really resist.

David turns to face him, arms folded, positioning himself between Gold and the door, just in case. “Of course she’s going to be here,” he says before Gold has a chance to get a word out. “It’s normal to feel a little nervous before the bride shows up – but she will show up.”

"You can’t know that," Gold snaps.

David takes a deep breath.

"So what else are you going to do to try to convince me?" Gold continues. "Regale me with tales of your own wedding day, and how nervous you felt until the lovely Snow White arrived right on time to marry her Charming hero?" His voice breaks on the final word, and he doesn’t quite manage the tone of withering sarcasm that he’s clearly aiming for.

David’s silent for a moment. He’s not quite sure what to say because of course he _had_ been about to talk about his own wedding.

Gold twists his hands together. “Belle doesn’t have a hero waiting for her. She has a-“

"Her True Love," David cuts in firmly. "That’s how I know she’ll be here. You know that, too." To David’s relief, these words seem to be the right ones. Gold doesn’t try to throw them back at him, anyway, and after directing a long, unnerving stare David’s way that makes him ache to reach for his sword all over again, Gold lets his hands fall to his sides. David’s only told him the truth, and Gold knows it’s the truth, even if he doesn’t seem to be willing to admit it in words. Gold tugs at his tie again, but less frantically this time. He’s still not exactly calm, but at least now he looks a little less likely to spontaneously combust.

"Let me fix your tie and then we’ll go back out there and wait for the bride to arrive," David says. It’s a special tie, wider than the ones Gold usually wears – more like a cravat, really, with thin black stripes on grey silk. Belle bought it by special order, and paid some stupid amount of money for it, though of course price is never an issue for Gold. Not unless it involves some sort of deal. David reaches for the tie but Gold pushes him away, or tries to. David’s bigger and stronger, though, and probably stupider, too, because he stands his ground and repeats, "This tie needs to be straightened and then we have to go back out there and wait for Belle. Or do I have to go out and borrow Hook’s hip flask to give you some liquid courage?"

Gold looks horrified at the idea. “No, you won’t do that,” he growls, but he stands still and lets David do what he can to restore the tie to something like the way it’s supposed to be. “What’s Hook doing out there, anyway?” he demands with a frown, batting at David’s hands to stop him tightening the tie any further. “I’m positive he wasn’t invited.”

"He’s Emma’s date," David says, patting the square bottom of the tie into place. It still doesn’t look quite right, but it will have to do.

"Then I don’t think much of your daughter’s taste in m-" Gold clamps his lips closed before he gets the last word out and whirls around to stare at the wall. It’s just as well that David’s finished with his tie or he’d probably have damn near strangled him by accident, after spending several minutes manfully resisting the temptation.

David’s silent again, but this time it’s on purpose. He’s known all along that he’s not really the best man; he’s just the second-best man. Neal should be the one standing here right now. David can imagine losing a child – he’s seen it happen before his eyes, after all – but at least he lost her to a hopeful future. He can’t imagine losing either of his kids to something as final as death. That’s why he’s cutting Gold a little more slack than his unfounded panic would deserve in just about any other circumstances. There’s an empty space here today, one that David isn’t even attempting to fill. He’s just helping out, standing in the space alongside the empty one.

Gold is still standing with his back to him, so David clears his throat loudly and says, “We’d better get back out there. You don’t want Belle to arrive and not see you standing there, waiting for her.”

Gold turns around to face him. “Indeed,” he says. He’s looking a little pale, but his voice is quiet and steady, almost the same as Mr Gold’s voice always is. Or always was.

They make their way back to where they’re supposed to be, followed by way too many curious pairs of eyes, but there’s not much David can do about that except try to ignore them. Snow is waiting for them at the altar, dressed up not in vestments, since she isn’t any sort of priest, but in a long, emerald green robe, embroidered in gold, that’s more Enchanted Forest than Storybrooke. Her qualifications for performing this marriage are Mary Margaret’s, not Snow’s, and she’s like no other Justice of the Peace that David’s ever seen, but she fits, somehow, in this church that isn’t really a church but just the shell of one created by the curse. She looks beautiful, and David shares a smile with her as he and Gold take their places before her.

If Snow White the Justice of the Peace fits this place, then Rumpelstiltskin the pawnbroker fits it even more: the Dark One dressed up in the shell of Mr Gold, as he awaits his bride. When David thinks about it like that, he figures it’s _really_ just as well that this isn’t a real church.

There’s the sound of some activity outside, and a moment later the church doors are pushed open. David heaves a sigh of relief. They got back out here just in time. Music starts up from somewhere, and he looks around in surprise. He was pretty sure that Granny was going to take care of the music, seeing as she was the only one around here who knew one end of an organ from another, as she put it. David hadn’t been the only one who’d found it difficult to get a word out in reply to that, so Granny had taken their silence for agreement and taken on the job of organising the music for the service. Or so he had thought. He’s not sure where the music is coming from, but it’s definitely not coming from the organ: Granny is seated in front of it, her hands poised over the keys, and he can almost see the steam coming out of her ears. The music sounds like an ensemble of strings and pipes, sedate and a little solemn, but there’s something about the chords and cadences that make him think that it’s secular rather than religious, and it seems to be coming from everywhere around them, though he can’t see any speakers. Somehow, David knows that it’s an old piece of music, and not one from this world. At a hunch, he’d guess that it hasn’t been performed in so long that it might as well be new and written specially for today – and when he looks at Gold and sees the small, satisfied smirk playing on his lips, he’s sure of it.

There’s a slight commotion just beyond the doors, and then Ariel enters the church and starts making her way down the aisle towards them. She’s Belle’s only bridesmaid. Belle will be here any moment. David watches the smirk fade from Gold’s lips.

"Not much longer now," David whispers, trying to sound reassuring, but he’s not sure that Gold’s even listening to him at this point. He’s certainly not looking at Ariel – his eyes are fixed on the church doors – so David makes a point of looking at her, and sends her a reassuring smile.

Ariel smiles back. She’s wearing… a dress: David’s certain about that much. It looks like a typical bridesmaid’s dress, he guesses, maybe even a bit on the demure side of things as bridesmaid dresses go, except that it’s a pinkish orange-ish red-ish sort of shade that he doesn’t think can have ever featured at many other weddings. He’s not sure what to call the colour, or even what to compare it to. The only thing it really reminds him of is Snow’s fingernails after she’s had a manicure. Is “nail polish” a dress colour?

"Oh, how pretty – and appropriate for a mermaid," Snow whispers from behind him. "A coral coloured dress."

Trust Snow to come to his rescue even when she doesn’t know he needs rescuing. David files that little piece of information away for future reference, just in case.

Ariel reaches them and takes her place on the other side of the aisle. And then the music stops and there’s deathly silence for a moment, before at last Belle appears in the doorway on her father’s arm.

David heaves another sigh of relief. Somehow, he doesn’t think it will be the last sigh he’ll heave today.

The music strikes up again, a dramatic chord this time. This is the part where Granny was planning to play “Here Comes the Bride”. And yes, this piece of music is definitely not “Here Comes the Bride”, or whatever its proper name is, but there’s something about it that demands everyone’s attention. It’s not as if Belle needs any music at all to achieve that. If Ariel’s dress was demure, Belle’s… isn’t. It’s short, which surprises David somehow, though it probably shouldn’t. It’s just that he always ends up comparing any wedding dress to Snow’s, and finding all the others lacking. Belle’s dress is not Snow’s, or anything like it, and that’s probably why David won’t forget it in a hurry.

The dress looks white from here, but that’s about as traditional as it gets. The top part of the dress is mostly lace – even he can recognise that when he sees it – with sleeves that don’t go all the way down Belle’s arms. The skirt is made out of some kind of floaty material, and it’s cut in several layers, one on top of the other, that end in different lengths. The longest one still ends well above Belle’s knee. She’s wearing tights beneath the dress, but not ordinary tights. These ones seem to be made out of lace. He didn’t even know that that was possible.

David doesn’t spend much time looking at Belle’s legs. Gold is right beside him, and Snow is right behind him, and he’s definitely not _that_ stupid.

There are flowers in Belle’s hair, rosebuds and little white blossoms of something else, with bits of green woven through, but the smile on her face makes flowers and dress and everything else pale into insignificance. David takes a quick glance at Gold and… yeah. A smile like that is never a one-way smile.

Beside her, Belle’s father isn’t smiling. He’s not doing anything as obvious as scowling, but the expression on his face is serious and just… not happy. It’s pretty clear that he’s here today because he believes he has a duty to his daughter, but that’s as far as it goes. David can almost understand that. He wouldn’t be all that happy at the thought of _his_ daughter marrying a man with a reputation like the one Rumpelstiltskin enjoyed – and he did enjoy it – back in the Enchanted Forest. On the other hand, David knows that he wants whoever Emma marries to look at her the way that Gold’s looking at Belle right now, with such absolute love and pride that David’s almost embarrassed to witness it. Not that there’s anything improper in the way Gold’s looking at her. No, nothing like that. The expression on Gold’s face speaks of matters – emotions – that are private and personal, but today they’re out in public for everyone to see. Surely even Moe can’t miss that, however much he dislikes the thought of his daughter with Gold?

As Belle gets closer, David can see that her dress isn’t white. It’s a soft, yellowy cream colour. David waits, half-expecting Snow to whisper whatever the official name is for a dress precisely that colour, but she’s silent. It doesn’t really matter, though, because David’s just caught sight of Belle’s shoes. She usually wears the highest heels in town, but the shoes she’s wearing for her wedding… They’re very pretty, David’s sure, and they match the colour of her dress – whatever that is – but they’re the tallest shoes he’s ever seen on anyone. David can’t understand how she’s walking and not tottering, or simply falling right over with every step. Maybe the shoes are enchanted, though he sort of hopes not. He’s heard some bad stories about enchanted shoes. It’s just as well Belle’s are yellowy cream and not red.

And then, suddenly, after what seems like the longest wait ever for a bride to make it to the church and down the aisle (apart from David’s own, naturally, but that was in a cathedral with a much longer aisle) Belle arrives at the altar and David’s work here is done. Almost done. He checks his pocket for the ring, and heaves a sigh of relief when he finds it’s still there.

He just has time to pull his hand back out of his pocket before Snow steps forward, and then… well, then things get properly underway.

~*~

Regina has never had much time for weddings. At worst, a wedding is just the beginning of a life of wedded misery, as she knows all too well; at best, they’re dull affairs. There’s nothing more boring than someone else’s love story, and true love is worst of all. Snow White’s deathly dull romance with her shepherd boy is proof enough of that. Admittedly, Regina did liven up Snow’s wedding, making quite the memorable entrance, catching every eye and completely upstaging the bride. Her exit wasn’t bad, either. Not that either Snow or Prince Boring ever thanked her for making their wedding more interesting than it had any right to be.

The years have passed since then, and names and places have changed beyond recognition, but Regina has no more time for weddings in this not-so-new world than she did in the old. Not until this one, anyway. She wouldn’t have missed Rumpelstiltskin’s wedding for the world – this or any other – but she still wishes they’d get on with it. She’s been waiting here for… ten minutes? Fifteen? And she’s not even in the front row, or anywhere near it. The best that can be said for Regina’s inconsequential seat is that it provides her with a useful vantage point from which to keep an eye on the rest of the congregation. She has little interest in almost all of those gathered here, though. They’re mostly peasants, even some of the royalty. She glances over towards the altar, where David and Rumple are re-taking their places before Snow. Apart from some – but not all – members of the wedding party, the only people present who Regina has the slightest interest in are all in the front row: specifically, the part of the front row where Emma sits with that pirate on one side and her son – _her_ son – on the other. Regina should be over there next to Henry, whatever Snow may say about the bride’s wishes. Honestly, if they were going to banish potential wedding guests on the basis of past misdeeds, Snow herself wouldn’t be here, nor Hook, nor pretty much anyone currently waiting for the ceremony to commence, including the groom. The church would probably be empty save for the Little Goody Two (High-heeled) Shoes bride, and she can hardly carry out a wedding all by herself.

Of course, by the same token, the wedding can’t happen until the bride gets here. Regina glances over at Rumple again. He looks less than completely calm as he waits for the bride to arrive. That doesn’t surprise Regina: she was surprised that he agreed to be part of such a…spectacle at all. She’s been half-expecting all along that he might run out of patience with all the small, pointless rituals and simply wave a hand and turn all the wedding guests into toads for his own amusement. Regina cast a magical shield on herself before she left home, just in case, and one on Henry as well.

And one on Robin. She can’t stop herself from turning her head to smile at him then. He smiles back, and takes her hand and squeezes it.

Maybe not absolutely everyone worthy of her interest is up at the front.

It takes effort for Regina to drag her gaze back to Rumple, but she makes herself do it because he looks not just less than completely calm but _nervous_ , and that’s something she wasn’t expecting. He bites his lip and swallows hard, a quick, convulsive movement that betrays far more of his current mood than he would ever intend to reveal. He can’t really think that his sweet little Belle would stand him up, can he? It appears that he can. And does. So perhaps the whole Lacey episode hit even more of a sore point with him than Regina had intended? She files away that little nugget of information for future reference. Little details sometimes have a way of becoming big details when they’re viewed in the right context.

Music strikes up – Rumple’s doing, clearly, with that faint tingle of power weaving its way around the notes of the melody – and then… Oh. It’s the mermaid. Regina had forgotten how very drawn out weddings could be, though not through lack of trying. She’s drumming her fingers on the back of the seat in front of her by the time Ariel takes her place opposite the best man. The dwarf sitting in front of Regina – she still can’t believe they put her behind the _dwarfs_ – turns around in his seat to complain, no doubt, but he hastily turns back when he realises who is in the seat behind him. Robin catches Regina’s fingers, squeezes her hand again, and this time he doesn’t let go. He looks at her, and doesn’t stop looking at her, for so long that Regina almost misses the arrival of the bride. The music starts up again, demanding attention, and she turns around just in time – though not before time – to see Belle entering the church on her father’s arm.

Belle’s wedding dress is about as expected, the top a lacy confection that reveals only modest cleavage – though it’s not as if Belle has anything more than modest cleavage to work with – while dipping in a deep vee at the back, matched with a short skirt of tiered chiffon. She has rosebuds and baby’s breath woven into her hair in lieu of a veil, and she carries a bouquet of red and white roses. The dress is ivory rather than pure white to match the flowers, though, which hints at certain intimate details that Regina would much rather not think about. Lower down, Belle’s legs are covered in lace stripe tights. They’re dainty, if you like that sort of thing, with each strip a different pattern of lace, but they’re also skin-tight and leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. And it will only take one good gust of wind and no one will need to wonder whether she’s wearing matching lacy underwear, either. The whole outfit is… very Belle, particularly those shoes. They don’t bring her close to even Rumple’s height, despite their ridiculous heels.

Rumple isn’t looking nervous any more. His eyes never leave Belle as she makes her way down the aisle to him. She’s about halfway there when his intent expression turns into a smile. Regina’s never seen him smile without the slightest hint of a threat before. The sight is stomach-turning. Or, rather, it _should_ be stomach-turning. Somehow it isn’t. The smile is soft, gentle, loving: everything she’s never associated with Rumpelstiltskin, and never would have, except that she can’t deny what she’s seeing, however much she wants to. He loves the little bookworm. True love. It hasn’t turned him dull yet, but there’s still plenty of time before the ceremony is over.

The bride arrives at the altar at last, and takes her place beside Rumple. It’s hard to see from way back here, but Regina is fairly certain that they’re holding hands. If this gets any sweeter, Regina really is going to heave. Snow steps forward and… really? She’s going to stop to chat with them _now?_

Robin’s fingers tighten around hers. “They’ll get started in a second, and then the ceremony will be over before you know it,” he says quietly.

Regina turns to stare at him. How did he know? “I’m not… fond of weddings,” she admits, just as quietly.

"Really? I’d never have guessed." The corner of his mouth turns up in amusement, but there’s a warmth to it that Regina’s still not accustomed to. His smile hits her like a delightful surprise every time. Now, just like every other time, she finds that she’s returning that smile before she can remind herself of all the very good reasons why she shouldn’t. At least, not in public.

"All right, perhaps I’ve been a little obvious," she says. "And you’re right. It _will_ be over soon.”

Well, it will be if things ever get started. Up front, Snow is taking her time getting things underway. She finishes exchanging words with Belle but stops to smooth down her robe before fussing with the placement of the bride and groom. Once the minuscule adjustments have been carried out to her satisfaction, she stops to smooth down her robe again before turning a bright smile on the entire gathering.

"Welcome, friends, to the marriage of Belle and Rumpelstiltskin," she says.

"Yes, we all know who they are and why we’re all here," Regina mutters. She expects that Robin will squeeze her hand again, but instead his fingers stroke lightly across her palm. When she glances at him, his smile isn’t amused this time, but it’s still warm.

Snow clears her throat. “Dearly beloved,” she begins, and Regina nearly sags in relief. Nearly. Instead, she sits up straight and proud, every inch a queen, and doesn’t let go of Robin Hood’s hand.

~*~

Mary Margaret loves weddings. They’re more than just a celebration of love and happiness: they’re love and happiness shared and given form. She’s never had the chance to officiate at one before, though, and she wants to make sure that it goes off without a hitch. She’s practised the order of service so many times that she knows all of the words off by heart and the marginal notes as well. She is quietly excited, and confident that everything will go exactly according to plan – which is why she’s more than a little dismayed when both the bride and the groom are nowhere to be seen a whole minute after the ceremony was due to start.

She tries not to let her relief show too obviously when David and Rumpelstiltskin emerge from the vestry, but David’s smile when they arrive in front of her looks as relieved as Mary Margaret feels. Rumpelstiltskin doesn’t smile. Not that Mary Margaret would expect that, ever. He looks… contained. But not calm. Nervous.

Well, at least that’s normal, or it is for weddings in which the grooms are not named Rumpelstiltskin. Or Mr Gold. Mary Margaret decides to take it as a good sign. Thinking positively never hurts. As if to prove her point, barely a moment later the church doors are flung open, music starts up – _not_ the music set out in the order of service but it’s too late to do anything about it now – and Ariel enters the church. Her coral chiffon bridesmaid dress is the perfect choice. Mary Margaret means to be all quiet dignity, as befitting her role in the proceedings, but she can’t help but exclaim – in a low voice that only David and Rumpelstiltskin are likely to hear, and she’s almost positive Rumpelstiltskin isn’t listening, anyway – at how pretty Ariel looks.

Ariel is down the aisle in almost no time at all, and then it’s Belle’s turn. She looks beautiful in her short, ivory lace and chiffon wedding dress with flowers in her hair, but the dress is nothing compared to the look on Belle’s face. If it’s normal for grooms to look nervous, then brides are supposed to look radiant, but Belle’s smile is something more than radiant as she walks down the aisle on her father’s arm. If anyone had any reservations about the rightness of Belle being joined with Rumpelstiltskin for the rest of their lives – for as long as they both shall live – one look at her face right now would surely be enough to lay their concerns to rest.

Belle’s father doesn’t look radiant. As they approach, Belle’s smile grows even brighter and her father’s frown deepens the grooves in his cheeks. Still, his facial expression can be ignored, so long as he continues to play his part. Once he’s delivered Belle to the altar, he only has to speak one line.

Moe relinquishes his hold on Belle the moment they arrive in front of Mary Margaret. Belle’s dazzling smile falters then, just for a split second before Rumpelstiltskin takes her hand in his.

Mary Margaret steps forward immediately. “Welcome to your wedding!” she says, with a beaming smile. “And thank you for letting us share this special day with you.”

Belle lets out a deep breath. “Thank you. Thank you both,” she says very quietly, glancing over at David as well. It’s clear she means for more than just the welcome.

"Perhaps you’d care to make a start?" Rumpelstiltskin suggests.

Belle shoots him a look, but not a sharp or reproving look: she’s just checking. Rumpelstiltskin’s voice is low, like Mr Gold’s, but he appears to be entirely in earnest. His words hold none of the acid, mocking undertone that Gold would employ to such effect and nothing of the dangerous playfulness of the scaly imp that Snow White first met back in the Enchanted Forest. The man who stands before her, waiting to be married to his True Love, is someone else, someone Mary Margaret hasn’t met before. _Rumple_ , she thinks. _This is the man that Belle calls Rumple_.

She smooths down her robe and casts a critical eye over the bridal couple. She wishes they’d had a chance for a proper wedding rehearsal, but plans have a way of being interrupted in Storybrooke and this week has been no exception. Nothing is going to get in the way of the wedding itself, though. It will be nothing less than perfect; Mary Margaret is determined about that. “Just move a teensy bit forward, Belle, if you wouldn’t mind?” she whispers. “And Mr- Rumple- if you’d move-“

"A teensy bit back?" he suggests. The look in his eyes has more than a hint of Mr Gold about it, but he matches his words with action, and since that was exactly what Mary Margaret was going to ask him to do there’s no point in objecting.

Once Mary Margaret has them lined up just the way she wants them, she smooths her robe again. At last they’re ready to begin. She takes a deep breath and turns her best smile on the sea of familiar faces. “Welcome, friends, to the marriage of Belle and Rumpelstiltskin,” she says.

Her words are greeted by a low murmur.

That won’t do at all. Mary Margaret clears her throat to remind everyone that they need to remain quiet while the ceremony is underway. “Dearly beloved,” she begins, and she can’t help grinning at finally getting the chance to say the familiar words for real. She schools her features, trying for something more solemn, and of course that’s exactly when she glances David’s way and finds him watching her, his eyes warm with shared memories. She’s certain that their eyes only meet for a split second, but then Rumpelstiltskin clears his throat – in exactly the same way that Mary Margaret did a moment ago, though not as loudly – and she hastily brings her full attention back to the proceedings. She assumes her best serious-yet-serene expression and continues, “We are gathered together in the face of this company to join this man,” – she turns to Rumpelstiltskin – “and this woman,” – she turns to Belle – “in matrimony. It is an honourable state not to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly, but reverently, discreetly, advisedly and solemnly.”

Mary Margaret smiles down at the couple before her. She’s sure they’re paying close attention to what she’s saying, but they’re not looking at her. They probably wouldn’t see anything but each other right now even if they _were_ looking at her. Their memories of this moment will be of each other - which is just how it should be. The expressions on their faces are just…

She has to swallow around the sudden lump in her throat before she can continue. “Marriage is the union of husband and wife in heart, body and mind. It is intended for their mutual joy and for the help and comfort given one another in prosperity and adversity. Through this union, Rumpelstiltskin and Belle make a commitment to face their disappointments, embrace their dreams, realise their hopes and to accept each other’s failures.”

Rumpelstiltskin’s hands tighten around Belle’s, and he closes his eyes for a moment. There’s a look of such naked pain and regret on his face that it’s hard not to want to look away – harder, even, than it was to look on their shared joy of a moment ago without feeling like an intruder. Rumpelstiltskin has done much worthy of regret, and much requiring forgiveness.

_How do you do it? Live with yourself, knowing all the bad things you’ve done._

_You tell yourself you did the right thing. And if you say it often enough, one day you might actually believe it._

Mary Margaret can hear that snippet of conversation as clearly as she did on the day it took place. Rumpelstiltskin has done so very many wrong things for what he believed to be the right reasons. He’s failed to be worthy of Belle’s love over and over again, probably many times more than Mary Margaret or anyone save Belle can know. Looking at him now, unguarded and honest before the woman he loves, it’s clear that he _knows_ that. He’s painfully aware of how badly he’s failed, and yet he’s here now, because despite that, despite everything, Belle accepts his failures and still believes with all her heart that he’s worthy of her.

For all his magical knowledge and ability to think ten steps ahead, for all that he’s always been the man with the answer for everyone else, Rumpelstiltskin still doesn’t really understand how true love works when it comes to himself. He doesn’t understand _why_. From the look on his face right now, it’s clear that he expects true love to fail him if he fails it. But no one is perfect, even if some people require more – a _lot_ more – acceptance of their failings than others. True love can’t be denied, and won’t be denied. It’s reason and answer both. Mary Margaret could have told him that.

Rumpelstiltskin opens his eyes again, and shares a hesitant, almost disbelieving smile with Belle. Her hands tighten around his this time.

Mary Margaret lets out a soft, relieved sigh, and continues on with the job of getting them safely married.

~*~

It’s taken some time, but Emma’s gotten used to who she is. First, before everything, she’s the mother of Henry. That’s the easy part. It was easy even before she got hit with nearly a dozen years of fake memories, and then added some real ones. She glances sideways at him now, and he grins at her. He’s a good kid, despite everything. Or maybe because of everything.

Emma’s also the Saviour of Storybrooke. She’s fine with that part now. More or less. She did save Storybrooke, after all. And lost it again. But it came back. And… it’s probably a good idea not to dwell on the finer details of… all that.

Last – though technically it should probably come first – she’s the daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming. This is the tricky part of who Emma is. She’s come to terms with Mary Margaret and David being her parents, and even with their being barely older than she is herself, if you don’t count the twenty-eight years when they lived the same day over and over. But that’s how she thinks of them: Mary Margaret and David. Not Mom and Dad and never, ever Snow White and Prince Charming. She tries hard not to even remember who they really are, but sometimes it’s impossible to forget.

Like, say, right now.

Mary Margaret- Snow- _her mother_ is standing up at the front of the church, her whole manner screaming “born to rule” as she repositions Belle and Gold – the freaking _Dark One_ – until the bridal couple are arranged to her satisfaction. She’s enjoying being in charge, which is just as well, in another way, because no one else sure as hell wanted the job. Gold’s disposition is unpredictable at the best of times – particularly when he’s less Gold and more Rumpelstiltskin – and Emma’s not sure if today _is_ the best of times. Sure, it’s their wedding day, the happiest day of their lives – at least, it will be, when they look back on it in future. Right now, though? With M- Snow White patronising the most powerful sorcerer in all the realms right after he’s spent way too long on edge waiting for the bride to turn up? And with other magic users looking on, just waiting for an excuse to start hurling spells around the place?

Emma slouches down in her seat and almost wishes that the floor would open and swallow her up. Almost. Except, not really, because she’s had enough of magical portals swallowing people up to last her to the other side of forever. Plus, thinking of magic portals always makes her remember one specific portal, and one specific person. She still dreams of that moment, when Neal told her he loved her and disappeared into that portal. It’s more a nightmare, really. She’s been determined not to think of him today, knowing that he should be here. Knowing that he can never be here. It’s hard, when she can picture the scene so easily: Neal up there beside Gold where David’s standing now. Neal keeping his father in check without having to drag him out of the room to do it. Neal calming his father with a look when her mother crosses the line from efficiently organised into micromanaging hell.

Emma looks up and around, and pulls herself up straight in her seat. There’s no point in thinking about what isn’t. She can’t change that. What _is_ is all that matters. She fixes her eyes on Gold and Belle. They’re holding hands and looking into each other’s eyes as Mary Margaret gets the wedding underway. Emma watches, and doesn’t think and doesn’t think and _doesn’t think_ as the familiar phrases of the marriage service wash over her.

"We are here today to witness this occasion that marks the celebration of love and commitment with which this man and this woman begin their life together," Mary Margaret is saying when Emma finally starts listening properly. Mary Margaret pauses, and takes the time to look around the room with a knowing smile.

Emma blinks, snapping out of her dreamy, not-thinking state in an instant. What comes next? It’s not… that part, is it? She glances at Hook, who’s sitting beside her, and the look on his face gives her her answer. He’s just _waiting_ for it.

"If any person can show just cause or impediment why they may not be joined together," Mary Margaret continues, "then let them speak now or forever hold their peace."

Emma claps a hand over Hook’s mouth before Mary Margaret has gotten out the last few words. When he struggles, Emma kicks him in the shin. Hook lets out a surprised yelp of pain that’s only partly muffled by her hand. She’s super-conscious of the commotion they’re making. It feels like everyone’s looking at them. It’s still better than letting Hook say anything, though. She glances up the front and finds Gold’s cold-eyed stare fixed on Hook. For a long, tense moment, the entire church is still and quiet. Emma gives Hook a warning look of her own and slowly removes her hand from his mouth. He immediately shoots an insolent grin at Gold, but he doesn’t say anything. He sprawls in his seat, legs stretched out in front of him. He looks like he’s relaxing in a tavern, minus the rum – and Gold’s still giving him that hard look. Just as Emma’s beginning to think she’s going to have to drag Hook right out of there, Belle tugs at Gold’s hand, and he turns back to face her. Emma lets out a sigh of relief – and so does everyone else, by the sound of it.

Up front, Mary Margaret is looking a tad wild-eyed. The possibility of some sort of disturbance partway through the ceremony was clearly not part of her plan, even if it probably should have been.

"That really wasn’t necessary, Swan," Hook mutters.

"Actually, I think it was," Emma whispers in reply. "I’ve _met_ you, remember?”

"Then you understand why I had to give it a try." Hook sounds suddenly serious.

"And you understand why I had to stop you," Emma says, just as seriously. That’s the main reason why Hook’s here at all. It had only taken Emma about three seconds to decide that it wasn’t a good idea to leave him to his own devices while the rest of Storybrooke was attending the wedding. Bringing him with her had been the only real option. If he’s sitting right next to her, she can keep a close eye on him – and a close hand as well, if he tries anything else.

Mary Margaret clears her throat – again – and continues:

"Will you, Rumpelstiltskin, take Belle to be your wife? Will you love her, comfort her, honour and protect her and, forsaking all others, be faithful only unto her for as long as you both shall live?"

"I will," Gold responds in a voice so low and gravelly that Emma would have trouble making out the words if she didn’t already know exactly what he was saying.

"Will you, Belle, take Rumpelstiltskin to be your husband? Will you love him, comfort him, honour and protect him and, forsaking all others, be faithful only unto him for as long as you both shall live?"

"I will," Belle says in a clear voice that nevertheless shimmers with as much emotion as Gold’s.

"Who has the honour of presenting this woman to be married to this man?" Mary Margaret asks.

The question is met with silence, and Emma wonders if the real disturbance is going to be much closer to the altar than she’d expected.

But then Belle’s father steps forward and says firmly, if not all that warmly, “I do.”

No one steps forward to present Gold in turn – but then, there isn’t anyone. Not any more.

Emma clamps her lips tightly together, and reminds herself again to focus on what is instead of on what isn’t.

Mary Margaret nods at Gold. It’s time for the exchange of vows. Gold takes Belle’s hand in his.

“I, Rumpelstiltskin, take you, Belle, to be my wife: to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, in sadness and in joy, to love and to cherish, so long as we both shall live. All this I vow and promise.”

The vows are simple and traditional, and nothing that Emma hasn’t heard lots of times before – mostly in movies and TV shows. She hasn’t been to many actual weddings. But for all their familiarity, she has to admit that there’s something about the way Gold delivers the words, a sincerity she’s rarely heard from him. Maybe there’s a chance that he won’t fuck up this relationship like he did with… Emma lets out a slow breath: she’s already decided not to let herself  think about what can’t be and there’s no way she’s going to change her mind about that. She really hopes Gold doesn’t fuck this up, and not just for Belle’s sake.

Then it’s Belle’s turn to say her vows. The words are almost exactly the same as the ones Gold just said, but somehow Emma is swallowing around a lump in her throat by the time Belle finishes. Must be all the hot air in here – she glances sideways at M- _her mother_ – making her throat scratchy and dry.

The exchange of rings comes next. Emma’s half-expecting David to dig frantically in his pockets before admitting that he’s lost the rings. It’s the kind of thing that happens in the sorts of movies where someone actually tries to speak up during the “just cause and impediment” part. But David produces the rings without any drama, and the rings are exchanged without a hitch.

Emma darts a sidelong glance Hook’s way. He’s still sprawled in his seat, and he looks bored but not as if he’s plotting a disturbance. Not yet. It’s just as well that the ceremony is getting close to the end. She elbows him in the ribs, just as a reminder.

"What?" Hook asks, without making much attempt at a whisper. He frowns, and rubs his side ostentatiously.

Emma just gives him a long look, and turns her attention back to the front as Mary Margaret starts speaking again.

"In the presence of us all, Rumpelstiltskin and Belle have joined hands and made their solemn vows, promising to be true to each other from this day forth. I now pronounce them to be husband and wife. You may k-“

Mary Margaret – no, that’s definitely Snow White standing there with her eyebrows raised – doesn’t finish the sentence. There isn’t much point. Gold and Belle are already kissing, and it’s not just a perfunctory peck on the lips.

Not at all.

They only break apart when Granny strikes a chord on the organ that echoes around the church, and then follows it up with the wedding march that’s as familiar as the wedding vows were.

Belle and- _Mr and Mrs Gold_ make their way back down the aisle as husband and wife. Belle looks happier than Emma’s ever seen her, and is that an actual smile on Gold’s face? He doesn’t stop to glare at Granny; he doesn’t even glance her way. He doesn’t look at anything except his new wife. Between Gold not looking where he’s going and Belle wearing the highest heels Emma’s ever seen off a catwalk, she’s half-expecting that they’re going to tumble right over before they make it as far as the church doors. But maybe there’s some special magic in the air – Emma wouldn’t put it past Gold to make sure that there’s _some_ sort of magic in the air – because they’re all the way down the aisle and out the doors in hardly any time at all.

The guests start filing out after the… bride and groom. And wow, it’s still sort of weird to think of them – _Gold_ – that way, even though Emma’s just watched them get married. She’d like to continue keeping a close eye on both of them – well, on Gold – until they’re safely on their way, but since she was right up the front for the ceremony, it means that she’s suddenly right down the back when it comes to getting out of the church. She _needs_ to get outside. Instead, she’s left kicking her heels in here, waiting for the tide of humanity – or at least Storybrooke’s part of it – to clear. She looks around for another exit, but there’s only the door to the vestry. She shakes her head: the place is a fire hazard.

Emma watches as the crowd around the church doors slowly shrinks. A surprising number of people are holding hands: Ariel and her prince, Grumpy and one of the fairies, and Regina and Robin Hood. Even her own parents.

"Coming, Swan?" Hook asks, and offers her his hook.

She rolls her eyes and punches him in the shoulder, though not all that hard. She offers Henry her hand instead.

"Mom!" Henry says. "I’m thirteen, remember?" And now it’s his turn to roll his eyes.

"Sorry," Emma says, holding up both hands. "Come on," she adds, and he grins and takes her arm. They stride down the aisle side by side, Emma and her true love, with Hook trailing along behind.

She wonders what sort of sight will be waiting for them when they finally get outside.

~*~

Belle emerges blinking into the late afternoon sunlight. She's rarely needed sunglasses in the time she's been living in Storybrooke, but she could do with a pair right now. At least, she could if this were an ordinary day. But of course it isn't. It's the least ordinary day of her life, and she doesn't want to dim it for even a second. Even the weather is smiling on them today. Their wedding day.

Belle and Rumple – her _husband_ – pause on the porch, looking down on Storybrooke as the outer door of the church swings closed behind them. Rumple reaches up to touch her cheek, and the look in his eyes is just… It's a moment before she realises that there's no sign of anyone coming out through the door to join them.

"What did you do?" Belle asks, nodding towards the door.

"I?" Rumple attempts to look hurt, or innocent, or innocently hurt, but gives up after a couple of seconds when Belle just keeps looking at him. "I just… slowed things down a little for them," he admits, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth now. "Everyone will be fine."

It's not really an answer. "So: why do it?" Belle asks.

"So we have time for… this." Rumple plucks two delicate champagne flutes, filled with sparkling champagne, out of thin air. He hands one to Belle, and raises the other. "To my wife," he says very softly as he looks over the top of the glass and into her eyes. "I don't deserve you." He raises a gentle finger to Belle's lips when she starts to deny that. "I don't deserve you, but I love you. And since you chose of your own free will to marry me, I will do everything in my power not to give you cause to regret it."

"You _do_ deserve me," Belle says, blinking back a tear. "And I love you. There's nothing you can do that will ever make me regret that choice." She raises her glass and her chin wobbles. "To my husband, the only man I've ever wanted to call by that name." They smile rather foolishly – foolishly happy – at each other as they clink their glasses together and sip champagne. It fizzes and pops against Belle’s nose, a celebration in a glass. They're standing so close that a shared smile becomes a shared kiss before Belle really has a chance to think about it.

Cold champagne spills down the lacy top of her wedding dress and fizzes against her skin. Belle jerks back in surprise.

"Sorry," Rumple says, frowning as he hastily pats at the wet spot on the lace. Any other man would take the opportunity to let his hand linger there, against her breast. But Belle's husband isn't like any other man. That's _why_ he's her husband. He never puts his own interests before hers. Sometimes there have been other priorities, other responsibilities that took him away from her, it's true, and Belle respected him for doing the hard thing, the brave thing, in situations where there was more at stake than just the two of them. But that's all over now. Now Rumple is hers, and she's his, and nothing will ever part them again. Belle is determined about that.

Rumple is still rubbing ineffectually at the damp stain on her top. He looks so worried and apologetic that Belle really has no choice but to kiss him again, to remind him of what's important right now – and that's definitely not a few drops of spilt champagne. She smiles into the kiss as she feels the tingle of his magic enveloping her. The lace no longer feels cold and damp against her skin. She was wondering how long it would take him to remember that he could clean her dress with a wave of his hand.

She's still smiling when she opens her eyes… and is greeted by the sight of a wall. And a window. The wall and window on the eastern side of the main living room in their house, to be precise.

Belle blinks. “That was… quick,” she manages after a moment. She’s still holding the glass of champagne in one hand and her wedding bouquet in the other. She sets them down on the side table beneath the window.

“We always planned to leave as soon as the ceremony was over,” Rumple reminds her.

“Yes,” Belle agrees, but maybe she doesn’t sound quite enthusiastic enough because there’s a hint of consternation in Rumple’s eyes as he asks:

“You don’t mind – do you? You didn’t want to wait and say goodbye to… people?”

“No,” Belle says, and chokes down a little laugh as she finds herself smiling yet again. “How could I mind being alone with my husband on our wedding day? Almost… our wedding night.”

They’re still standing close enough to kiss, should they wish to, so Belle doesn’t miss the flare of heat in her husband’s eyes. She takes hold of the lapels of his morning coat to pull him close.

“I told you I didn’t care what our wedding was like so long as we were both there. That’s the only part that matters,” she whispers, a breath away from his lips.

With a muffled groan, Rumple closes the remaining gap between them and captures her lips in a hard, fervent kiss.

“I thought… I thought maybe you wouldn’t turn up,” he admits shakily when he pulls back from her.

“You should know me better than that.”

“I should. And I do. I just…” Rumple shakes his head. “I had no one but myself for so long, Belle. So very long.”

“But now you have me,” Belle says, reaching up to stroke along his cheek and bury her fingers in his hair. “I’d never leave you standing there alone, not in front of all those people. Not anywhere.” Her voice almost breaks on the last couple of words.

This kiss feels less desperate than the last one, but no less ardent. They part slowly when it ends. It’s hard to look away from Rumple’s eyes. It’s hard to want to look at anything else. Belle wishes they could stand here like this forever, smiling at each other and exchanging kisses as the mood strikes. Of course they can’t. They’ll have to look away, move away, let time start passing again.

But not just yet.

"I, uh, know we're not going to be attending our own party, but I hope I'll still get a chance to dance the bridal waltz," Belle says with a hopeful smile.

Rumple raises his eyebrows and regards her in mock-surprise. Belle almost says something more, but then he takes a step back and makes a gesture that reminds Belle of a conductor in front of an orchestra. She's not wrong about that: as the golden shimmer of his magic disperses, the room fills with music. It sounds like a chamber orchestra, with strings taking up the melody while a harpsichord picks out the bass. It reminds Belle of the balls she attended back in their land, in the days before the ogres came.

"If I may have the honour of this dance, my lady?" Rumple asks, and makes a sweeping bow before her.

"Why, I'd be delighted, kind sir," Belle replies with a little laugh, and an elaborate curtsy of her own. 

He takes her hand, and draws her onto the Persian rug in the middle of the room. It's a large room, like most rooms in this house. Most of the furniture is close by the walls, leaving space enough in the centre for a single couple to dance should they so wish.

They've never danced together; it doesn't feel like it. Dancing with Rumple comes naturally and easily, just like everything else. It's always been like this, right from the first time she hugged him, in those all too rare moments – rare until now – when nothing and no one has come between them. Belle follows Rumple's lead without having to consciously think about it. She lays her head against his shoulder and they move around the room in a loose circle, their steps flowing into the music until they're no longer two, but just one.

After a while, the music shifts into something slower and dreamier, without the original piece ever quite coming to an end. Belle lifts her head and finds her husband watching her, the expression in his eyes a far too familiar mix of happiness, sadness and disbelief. He looks almost as if he might cry. Belle lifts her chin, tilting her head to one side. That's all it takes. They're moving so slowly now that it's easy for Rumple to lean down close enough for her to kiss him. She feels his sigh, the breath lost against her lips. Her arms slip up and around his neck and his close around her, pulling closer, leaning into the kiss, leaning into each other, as they sway with the music in a slow, perfect, endless moment.

It ends abruptly. The heel of Belle's shoe catches on the edge of the rug and her eyes fly open as she falls against Rumple. She grabs at his shoulders, suddenly leaning into her husband for real. She tries to regain her balance just as Rumple pulls her up against him, exclaiming, "I've got you."

He's still got her as the two of them keel right over, and land on the rug with a… well, not a thump. Barely even a jolt. Belle lifts her head. She's lying on her front, and Rumple is sprawled out beneath her. 

"Are you all right?" Belle asks, just as Rumple reaches for her and asks the same question.

"I'm fine," Belle says. "You caught me. Again," she adds, remembering another time, another place and a much greater fall. She's fallen a long, long way since then, into something she never wants to fall out of again.

"Always," Rumple says softly.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Belle asks again, concerned, because the music cut out when they fell and he still hasn't answered her question.

"Magic has its uses," he says, and reaches up to tuck a loose lock of hair behind Belle's ear. The beautiful, flower-bedecked hairdo that Ruby arranged for her is escaping its hairpins. She must appear very much less than perfect, sitting here with her skirts in disarray and hair falling in her eyes, but the way Rumple is looking at her says otherwise. "I'm better than all right," he adds. His hand slides along her back and down to gently squeeze her arse, just in case Belle might somehow not know exactly what he means by that.

Belle wriggles happily and pulls herself up so that she's sitting astride Rumple's thighs. She bites down on a mischievous smile as she gazes down at her husband, who gazes right back, his expression almost – _almost_ – impassive. "I'm better than all right, too," she says, and reaches down in front of her, letting her hand rest briefly against the fly of his trousers – before leaning forward to loosen his tie. He lets her reach around and pull his tie right off, but when her fingers move to the top button of his shirt, Rumple closes his hand over hers.

"No," he says. "Not yet. There's something else we have to do first."

"There is?" Belle asks, and wriggles again.

"There is." He sits up, presses a soft kiss on her lips, and then pushes her gently off him.

Rumple helps her to her feet – her Jimmy Choos weren't designed with getting up off the floor in mind – and Belle grabs a tight hold of his arm until she gains her balance. She keeps holding him tight after she's gained her balance, too. She can feel his muscles, solid and firm as they move beneath the sleeve of his coat. He looks good in his wedding finery, but she knows every inch of what lies beneath it, every inch of him, the only lover she's ever wanted. She wants to see her lover again, and soon. And she wants to see her husband, all of him, for the very first time.

"Well?" she says, grinning as she looks around. There's nothing in the room that hasn't always been here, apart from their two champagne flutes and her bouquet over on the side t- "Oh." Belle lets go of Rumple's arm, but only so she can take his hand and lace her fingers through his. She leads him over to the table to take a closer look.

The wedding cake sits in the centre of the side table beneath the window. It's not large, but there are several tiers, and it's decorated as elaborately as any full size wedding cake, with thick white icing topped with sugar flowers. Roses, like the ones she carried today: red roses for love and white roses for tears. There’s been a lot of both along the way, but right now Belle’s tears are happy.

“Does it meet with your approval?” Rumple asks. He sounds hesitant.

Belle throws her arms around his neck. "It's beautiful," she whispers against his collar as she hugs him tight. He hugs her back, and she can feel the relief in him as he relaxes against her. Even now, he’s still not completely sure of himself when he’s around her. Everyone else is an open book to him, but not her. He has to take the time to read her pages.

Belle is looking forward to that.

Rumple lets her go and picks up the large knife lying on the table next to the cake. There are also two small cake plates and two silver cake forks. “Shall we?” he asks, offering the knife to her.

Belle takes it, relieved that it’s a flat-edged knife and not a flame-bladed dagger with a name on it. She holds the knife point down towards the centre of the cake. Rumple’s right hand closes over hers, his other warm against the small of her back, and together they cut their wedding cake. Maybe it should feel odd that such a moment should take place in private with just the two of them and no one watching. It doesn't feel odd. Nothing ever feels anything other than right when it's just the two of them.

The first slice reveals that there’s a red velvet cake beneath all that elegant decoration. Belle transfers the slice carefully to a small plate – one that features the same pattern as her chipped cup. One look at Rumple tells her that that's no accident. Belle's lower lip trembles and they just regard each other in silence for a moment.

He cuts a small piece of cake from the slice, and offers it to her on the end of a cake fork. He's looking impassive again, or trying for something like it. Nonchalant, maybe.

He's not quite succeeding at it.

Belle leans forward and closes her mouth over the offering of cake. She doesn't take her eyes off Rumple's face.

He's not succeeding at being impassive or nonchalant at all as she draws back, letting the tines of the fork slip back out of her mouth and over her lips. She chews and swallows, still looking at him.

"It's good," she says. And it is. In more ways than one. She cuts another morsel of cake with the side of the fork. "Your turn." She holds the fork out to her husband, and doesn't even attempt to look nonchalant.

"Share," he says at once, and steps closer.

Belle looks from him to the tiny piece of cake on the end of the fork and then back at him.

"We're married now," he points out. "What's yours is mine and mine is yours."

"Even cake?"

"Especially cake," he says, and guides her hand up so that the tines of the fork are back against her lips.

It's messy trying to share a piece of cake and a kiss at the same time, but they manage it.

"That piece tasted even better than the first one," Belle says when at last both kiss and cake are done.

"Mm-hm," Rumple says. Belle doesn't think he's really listening, but since he's kissing his way down her neck right now, she'll forgive him.

"It's a shame the cake is so small," she continues, stroking his hair as she lets her head fall back against the wall. Her breath catches, and she drops the fork on the table. She swallows hard, and goes on, "It would have been nice to send out a piece of cake to all the wedding guests."

Rumple lifts his head. "We can do that if you'd like." Apparently he is listening, after all.

"How?" Belle says. Even cutting the thinnest possible slices there still wouldn't be anything like enough wedding cake to go around.

"Look." Rumple nods toward the wedding cake.

Belle looks. The cake is whole again, exactly as it was before they cut it. "Oh! It's like a cut-and-come-again pudding!" she exclaims.

"A what?" Rumple frowns. He looks the tiniest bit put out. Perhaps he was expecting more amazement from her, but Belle's been living with magic for quite some time now and she knows it when she sees it.

"Oh, it's from a children's book. Don't worry," Belle says, and smiles gently as her fingers slide down through his hair to cup the side of his face. "But that's what it does, doesn't it? The more you eat, the more there is?"

"Yes, that's what it does," Rumple agrees. "You can have your cake and eat it, and share it with anyone you like." The way he says that last bit makes Belle think that he hopes she will continue to share the cake with him.

She kisses him softly, though without cake this time.

“Why did you want all those people at the wedding?” Belle asks. The suggestion of having a church wedding, and inviting most of Storybrooke, had come from Rumple in the beginning. It's so unlike him to care what other people think that she knows there has to be a good reason for his insistence on having a large wedding. She’s never quite got a straight answer out of him about it, though she's tried more than once.

“I didn’t want _Hook_ there.” Rumple snorts. "He's no doubt already making good use of the free bar at the party we're conspicuously not attending," he says, toying with a loose ringlet of hair that's lying along her neck.

“Thank you for letting Emma deal with him," Belle says, resting her head on his shoulder as relief washes through her all over again just remembering that moment. But she's also very much aware that once again Rumple has distracted her from getting a proper answer to her question. "Why, Rumple?" Belle asks, lifting her head to look at him. "Why the big church wedding?"

Rumple doesn't say anything for a moment, but when Belle just keeps looking at him steadily his fingers close around the lock of her hair, pulling it almost painfully tight. “It wasn’t for me. It was for you." Belle opens her mouth to speak.  "And for them, for everyone who was there,” Rumple adds, before she can remind him again that she would have been perfectly happy with a tiny wedding. “They needed to see – be shown – that you are my wife, with everything that that implies, even if, perhaps, I’m one day no longer here.”

“What?” Belle says, going cold all over. “You aren’t planning on… going somewhere? Are you?”

“No, not planning,” Rumple assures her, letting go of her hair to reach out and smooth the frown lines furrowing her forehead. “But… things happen. They especially happen to someone who’s lived the sort of life I’ve lived, who’s accumulated enemies. And prices. If something were to happen to me… I wanted everyone in this town to be left in no doubt as to who you are, how important you are, how _protected_ you are, and will continue to be, whether I’m here or not.”

By the time he’s finished speaking, Belle can barely see through the shimmer of her tears. “Don’t,” she says, though she’s not really sure exactly which part of his speech she’s responding to. Maybe all of it at once. "If you go anywhere, I'm going with you. I'm your wife now, and you're stuck with me. Forever."

He smiles at that, though it's still not a very happy smile. Certainly not the sort of smile that a man should be smiling on his wedding day. "I remember the first time you said that to me. Forever."

"I meant it then, and I mean it now. 'For as long as we both shall live'. Remember?"

He answers with a kiss. Belle clings to him, and when this kiss finishes she doesn't let go but simply says, "I've had enough cake, and dancing, and champagne."

She doesn't suggest what they might do next. There's no need. Belle hugs her husband close and feels the tingle of his magic along her arms and down her spine. Her hair feels as if it wants to stand on end. She closes her eyes, and when she opens them again, they're standing upstairs in the middle of their bedroom.

Outside, afternoon is turning into evening. Rumple steps over to the bedside table to switch on the lamp. He turns back to look at her with a hesitant smile. Belle is in his arms again in the space of a heartbeat. She'd thought that maybe she'd feel a little shy on her wedding night, even though they've been living together and sharing this bedroom for some little while now. A wedding night would feel different, she'd thought, even though it wouldn't be the first time – or the second or… more – that they'd known each other like this.

But now the time has arrived, and she's here with her husband, and shyness is the last thing she's feeling. The thought of losing him is not even to _be_ thought. She can't bear it, not today, even though she was the one who pushed him into mentioning it. And she can't bear not to touch him, to feel him there beside her as well as see him. To feel him as close as humanly possible – that's what she needs right now.

Belle takes Rumple by the arm and pulls him over to the bed. He follows willingly enough, but perhaps he's picked up on her uncertain mood because he doesn't take her in his arms or push her back against the pillows. He just sits beside her on the side of the bed and takes her hand, rubbing it gently as he says, "Why don't I take your shoes off for you?"

"I- Thank you," Belle says, and watches as he leans down and matches his words with action. She sighs as first her right foot and then her left are freed. The shoes are beautiful, but she's already done quite a bit more walking – and dancing – in them than is practical or comfortable.

"Lie back against the pillows," Rumple says as he shrugs out of his morning coat.

Belle does as he asks, and isn't all that surprised when he pulls her stocking foot into his lap. He takes it in both hands and caresses it, long firm strokes of his thumb tracing the contours from heel to toe through the lace as he rubs the ache away. Belle leans back against the pillows and closes her eyes, and lets herself feel instead of think.

She opens her eyes again when he sets her right foot carefully down on the covers and takes her left foot in hand.

"It'd be easier if my foot was bare," she points out.

"It might, at that," Rumple says, looking up from his task. Looking at her. There’s such warmth for her in his eyes, such love, that it hurts all the more to see the lingering sadness there as well. Belle knows she can’t ever banish the sadness completely, but she can distract him from it. She arches her hips, pushing up off the bed for a second so that she can draw the lovely filmy chiffon tiers of her skirt up around her thighs.

“You’re not wearing tights,” Rumple observes, in a voice as calm as anything Belle ever heard him say when he was being Mr Gold, but there’s a different kind of warmth in his eyes now.

“No,” Belle agrees, “I’m not.” She pushes the skirt of her dress up even further so he can see the blue satin ribbon threaded through the ivory lace garter belt that’s holding up her stockings.

“Something blue. So are you also wearing something old, something new and something borrowed?”

“Yes, but you can’t see them right now,” Belle says, fluttering her eyelashes while trying her best at a coquettish smile. She feels faintly ridiculous, attempting such a pose, and spoils the effect almost immediately by bursting out laughing as soon as she meets Rumple’s eyes. “I don’t think I’m very good at this,” she admits, and bites her lip to try to stop more giggles from bubbling up inside.

“I disagree,” Rumple says, and, almost before Belle has time to blink, he’s no longer halfway down the bed but right there beside her, leaning in, so close that she can feel his breath against her cheek. “You’re perfect,” he whispers, right before he kisses her.

Belle’s not laughing when her husband’s lips leave hers. She feels as though she can barely breathe. She swallows as she feels his hand against her thigh, and then the tiny sting of one suspender and then another flicking back against her skin as Rumple releases their hold on the top of her stocking.

She sighs as he starts rolling the stocking down her leg. It’s romantic and terribly intimate, both of which are appropriate for a wedding night, but so slow. It takes effort to stop herself from grabbing him and pulling him back up against her. She needs to feel him, all of him.

Rumple leans down and Belle’s breath catches as his lips press against her bare inner thigh. And again, and then again. He rolls her stocking down her thigh and over her knee, a trail of kisses following in its wake. By the time he reaches her ankle, Belle’s breath is coming deep and fast. He’s kissed up and down her body before, he’s kissed her feet before, but it’s never felt quite like this.

“Your feet are cold,” Rumple says.

It takes Belle a second to make sense of what he’s said. She takes a deep, calming breath. At least, it’s deep and it’s supposed to be calming.

“My feet always seem to be cold,” she says. “Until you warm them up for me, anyway. Do you think they’re like hands? You know the saying, ‘Cold hands, warm heart’.”

“Your heart could never be anything but warm,” Rumple says, “and as for your feet…” He lifts her foot up and kisses along her instep.

Belle closes her eyes. Her lips are trembling. All of her is trembling. “Make love to me,” she croaks.

Rumple looks up. “I thought that’s what I was doing?”

“ _Fuck_ me,” Belle says. She can hear the desperation in her voice so surely Rumple must hear it, too. 

Rumple's mouth drops open in startlement. She's never used that word before, not in reference to anything and least of all to herself. After a second, the surprise fades as he continues to stare at her, and heat flares in his eyes. Then he drops her foot back on the mattress and they’re both scrambling to undress. If she’d thought Rumple moved fast when they were sitting on the bed before, it’s nothing to how fast he moves now. Possibly there’s a hint of magic involved. 

Belle has already pulled off her underwear but she’s still trying to get rid of the other stocking when Rumple arrives beside her, still in his shirt, half-unbuttoned, but wearing little else. Belle gives up on the stocking, and cups his face between her hands so that she can kiss him. She moans into the kiss as she feels his cock, hard and hot against her leg. Her hand slips down between them and brushes the tip. He moans and deepens the kiss, thrusting up against her, hard. She can feel a tremor run through him. All of that, just from the lightest of touches.

So she’s not the only one who’s feeling desperate.

His hand moves up under her skirt – what little of it that’s still covering her – and his fingers stroke through her curls until they find her clit.

Belle pulls back, letting out a deep, shuddering breath.  “No,” she says. She’s so ready that this first touch is almost too much. "Now. _Please_."

Rumple doesn’t have to be asked again. He shifts to lie between her legs, planting his hands on the pillow on either side of her head. Belle reaches down to guide him to her. And then he’s there, right where she wants him, right where she aches for him, sliding in easily against the wetness of her, filling up the emptiness. He’s hers, here and now, and nothing can come between them.

“Oh, Belle,” Rumple says. “My beautiful wife.” His mouth slips against hers, clumsy with passion, as they find each other in an awkward, perfect kiss.

“My darling husband,” Belle gasps. This is as much a commitment, as much a vow, as the words they spoke in church today. _With my body I thee worship,_ she thinks, and wraps her legs around him.

She arches her hips to meet him as he moves above her, tensing as he pulls back, so far that he almost slips out. The head of his cock is pushing up against the throbbing centre of her and Belle feels as if she’s poised on a mountaintop. Rumple moves, thrusting quick and hard and deep.

Belle cries out, once, and then she falls.

Her fingers dig into his shoulders as sensation overwhelms her. She clenches against and around him, and shudders with the intensity of it, only half-aware that she’s moaning long and loud as each new wave of pleasure takes her. It’s impossible to stay silent. She’s panting and half-crying with release and relief by the time Rumple gasps and thrusts hard once, twice and goes still above her.

He collapses against her. It’s a moment before he collects himself enough to prop himself up on his elbows. 

“Sorry,” he mouths against her neck.

Belle doesn’t care. She wants to be as close as physically possible. Her hands come around to rest on his backside.

Rumple lifts his head.

“Nice bum,” Belle says, and grins as she remembers all the surreptitious glances she used to cast his way long before she ever got the chance to touch him properly, back when he used to wear all that tight leather. 

Rumple grins – actually _grins_ – right back at her, suddenly carefree and boyish and happy.

Happiness. That’s all Belle wants, for both of them, and right now that’s exactly what she has. She’s filled up with it, right down to her toes, so much so that she feels as if her heart might burst. 

Not every moment can be as perfect and happy as this one. Not even most of them. Belle knows that. But as she pulls her husband down for another kiss, she smiles: her feet are warm.

**Author's Note:**

> The book that features the cut-and-come-again pudding is [The Magic Pudding](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Magic_Pudding) by Norman Lindsay, an Australian children's classic. If Belle hasn't read it, then I'm sure Lacey did at some point in her memories of an Australian childhood. ;)


End file.
